


Give

by voicedimplosives



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A Day At The Races, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, F/M, First Dates, Jedi Rey, POV Ben Solo, Senator Kylo Ren, Sticking Up For Your Partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 09:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: /ɡiv/verb◦ freely transfer the possession of (something) to (someone); hand over to.◦ cause or allow (someone or something) to have (something, especially something abstract); provide or supply with.noun◦ capacity to bend or alter in shape under pressure; elasticity.





	Give

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selunchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selunchen/gifts).



> this the third epilogue of [selunchen](https://selunchen.tumblr.com/)'s brilliant comic, _Maroon_ [[part one](https://selunchen.tumblr.com/post/177417624572/maroon-m%C9%99%CB%88ru%CB%90n-leave-someone-trapped-and) [part two](https://selunchensart.tumblr.com/post/180073289058/selunchen-maroon-m%C9%99%CB%88ru%CB%90nleave-someone)]. i recommend reading the comic [of course] and also reading the first two epilogues, [avidvampirehunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidvampirehunter/pseuds/avidvampirehunter)'s [_Abandon_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717657) and [destinies'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinies/pseuds/destinies) [_Reunion_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730478) before reading this. they're both beautiful, moving pieces! and they fill in some important moments in the progression of rey and ben's relationship, after Maroon. one last thing: thank you so much selina, for letting me have some fun with the world you brought to life; i hope i did it justice. ❤ okay that's enough from me!

How surreal it is, after all that they have been through, to be cuddling with Rey on the couch of his penthouse apartment in Galactic City. How domestic, how calm. Ben runs his fingers through her hair, gently disentangling knots when he finds them. She doesn’t look up at him, but he can just make out her sleepy smile; her head rests on his chest, her body draped over his like a blanket.

 

Quiet nighttime repose, shared between two lovers. They have eaten, they have done their day’s work. They’ve made love, too; loud and fast and hard, tonight— crowded up against the kitchen counter after dinner.

 

And now they’ve gone quiet, but not silent. Tranquil. Rey’s breaths are steady puffs of air against his throat. He gives a throaty hum, a wordless song of contentment, and she harmonizes with a hum of her own.

 

Together, they watch a podrace on the large holoscreen that is fixed to the wall across the room. Some of the thrill is lost, Ben supposes, when you are not there to view the race in person. He has only ever been to one podrace in his life, when he was a small boy. Chewbacca and his father had brought him here to Coruscant; they’d met Lando at the entrance of the arena, and together they’d embarked upon what his father had called a ‘boys’ day out.’ The day had been warm, with blue skies. Chewie had let him try a sip of his Kashyyykan bitter berry beer, and Lando had bought him a souvenir from one of the vendors— a miniature pod racer, with an operational engine. They’d laughed so much that day, the four of them.

 

Ben inhales deeply. On the exhale, he attempts to release the memory. It pains him; all his memories of that time do. He breathes like that, deeply in and deeply out, until it has faded.

 

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, he can hear the skylanes’ muted buzz. The city— the planet— is still wide awake despite the late hour, the lanes full of rushing airspeeders and yachts and taxis. There is no true darkness on an ecumenopolis like Coruscant— the night glows a deep plum hue, stippled with the city’s twinkling lights.

 

Rey is fighting to stay awake. Her eyelids keep slipping down, lashes fanning out over her cheeks. Then they snap open and she gives an almost imperceptible jolt— awake again, and darting sheepish glances his way to see if he’s noticed her dozing.

 

She works too hard; Ben has no compulsion in telling her so. Every time he does, she volleys the same accusation right back. And it’s true, he can concede that: they both of them work too hard. All their lives, they have known only work, only labor and responsibility. They are still learning how to be people who relax.

 

They’re relaxed now, though.

 

“You like this?” he asks, sounding lethargic to his own ears. He continues petting her hair. “Pod racing?”

 

“I love it,” she answers in her own sleepy murmur.

 

“Ever see it in person?”

 

“Never even saw it on holo, before tonight.” She yawns and shifts, settling more comfortably into his body. With his free arm he hugs her tight and she hums again, contented. “We need to rewatch it tomorrow, when I’m more awake.”

 

Rey blinks a few times, then gives up and lets her eyes sink closed. This time, they stay closed. Within a few minutes, she begins to snuffle softly.

 

A plan begins to form in Ben’s mind. _I’ll do you one better_ , he thinks.

 

. . .

 

After some deliberation, he chooses Malastare, because it’s a diversely terrained planet but the race— the Phoebos Memorial Run— will take place in the forested region and he knows how Rey feels about forests. He buys the tickets in the middle of the night while she’s sleeping, although according to his calculations it’s actually the morning before the race, on that planet.

 

In the morning, while she’s still asleep, he slips from their bed— a deviation from the norm, the first of many for the day— and hails his senatorial assistant by commlink.

 

“I won’t be in today,” he informs the Czerialan— a loyal enough employee whom he’s sure has been placed in her position to keep an eye on him.

 

“Oh? Would this absence have anything to do with the return of a certain adorable Jedi to Coruscant?” Her voice is all amused insinuation.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies blithely, before ending the call.

 

The servant droid is busy cleaning the kitchen when he pokes his head in; Ben instructs him to brew them some caf and cook up a full breakfast, with all of Rey’s favorite foods, and the droid beeps out its approval. Then he returns to bed, rousing her to wakefulness with his tongue and his teeth and his lips.

 

. . .

 

“When exactly do I get to find out why we’ve traveled all the way to the Mid Rim, to—what planet did you say this was again?” Rey leans back in the co-pilot seat of their starhopper’s cockpit, leveling him with a quizzical stare. “And don’t say ‘some things you need to see for yourself’ again.”

 

“Malastare. And soon,” is all he tells her. She attempts to prod at his thoughts through the bond so he sends a sharp look in her direction, to which she gives a sheepish shrug. At that, he can’t completely fight back the smile that pulls at his lips; she spies it and chuffs out a small laugh then rolls her eyes, appeased for the time being.

 

That temporary appeasement turns to genuine curiosity once they’re dirtside on Malastare; she’s frowning and confused as he lowers them into a clearing in the woods, not far from the race’s starting point and the viewing stands, then lifts the starhopper’s transparisteel bonnet. He wonders if she likes it here: likes the trees, the light birdsong drifting on the air, the planet’s heavy gravity, the smell of trees and moss. Maybe she’d prefer a planet full of nature like this to one completely covered in cityscape, like Coruscant. It’s a piece of information he tucks away in the back of his mind for a future conversation.

 

When he climbs out of the cockpit and turns to offer his hand— which she takes, and it is still gratifying to him that in moments such as these she does so without hesitation— he thinks he can hear the distant roar of the crowd.

 

And he spots it, the moment she catches the sound too and realizes where he has brought her; her sweet face lights up with comprehension.

 

“Ben,” she says slowly, feeling him out. “I don’t suppose you hear that?”

 

“Come.” That’s his answer. Her hand still safely enfolded in his, he urges her forward, over gnarled tree roots and lichen and ferns and idyllic babbling brooks. On any other occasion, she’d want to stop to enjoy this, but today she follows behind without complaint. Forward, forward they march, to the excitement and the action.

 

A childlike grin dimples Rey’s cheeks, when he looks back to check on her. Ben _feels_ her excitement through their bond _._ He is excited like a child too, like he has not been since he _was_ a child. He doesn’t know if that feeling is him or her, or a medley of their emotions— he just revels in feeling it at all.

 

 _Perhaps this is not_ just _for Rey,_ he admits to himself, as the forest thins and the looming stone walls of the pod racing spectator stands rise up before them. Now the roar of the crowd has grown deafening and with it, Rey’s grin has bloomed into ecstatic beaming. Now she bounds ahead of him, tugging _him_ along. He’s chosen well; he’s made her happy. Ben returns her smile, or at least— he tries to.

 

No, this is not just for her. This is for both of them. There is so much for her to be given, which she never had; there is so much for him to reclaim, which he threw away.

 

. . .

 

With his position as Senator in the New Republic come certain perks; among them is a very agreeable salary. Such a salary means that in times like these— rare instances when Ben finds something to spend credits on, besides furniture for his apartment that he thinks Rey will like— he is able to splurge.

 

It requires two separate turbolift rides to get them to their seats; the first was a horizontal journey, taking them a half a kilometer away from the stadium’s entrance, then the second swooped them up above the canopy of Malastare’s forests, up to the tier at which they now sit. A hulking usher droid was waiting at the turbolift doors when they’d arrived, asking for their tickets in a haughty tone that switched to grating deference once Ben produced them. It bowed to them then, and led them to their seats, providing them with a complimentary datapad and two glasses of Cedrellian aged wine.

 

This is how they find themselves in the Deluxe VIP booth, a few long rows of lavishly cushioned seats protected from the elements by a clari-crystalline windshield which allows them a panoramic view of the most critical leg of the race. Rey— despite the time that they have spent together in places like this, where luxury is a given— looks around, wide-eyed and wary at their surroundings, especially the richly dressed fellow spectators. Ben and Rey don’t exactly fit in; a female Zabrak seated in front of them is wearing what appears to be a ball gown. In comparison, they are dressed far more simply. Ben has on his usual casual attire: undecorated black jacket, tunic and trousers; Rey is bundled up in a drapey grey caftan and soft leggings, with knee-high boots that he’d like to see her wear with nothing else, some time—

 

He shifts his attention back to the datapad in his hands. “We’ll be able to track the racers on this.”

 

“Seems like we won’t be able to see them for most of it,” Rey says, the faintest hint of disappointment in her voice.

 

“Look that way.” Ben points off to their right and Rey’s eyes follow; from this vantage point, they have a clear view all the way down the narrow rockwalled canyon that serves as the final and most treacherous leg of the circuit. “The race is won or lost in there,” he tells her.

 

“I see your point.” She’s smirking at him, but he’s not finished.

 

“Look this way,” he continues, gesturing to their left. Again, Rey’s gaze slides across the panoramic view. In front of them, the canyon opens up and allows for a few hundred meters of wide open space— where the pod racers have one last chance to fight for their place in the race before crossing the finish line. To the left is said finish line, practically obscured by the mob of pod-racers and repulsorcraft that are lined up and preparing for the sounding shot.

 

“Not a bad view,” he remarks, keeping his tone neutral.

 

“All right I get it, Senator.”

 

She takes a sip of her wine and gags, then hands it to him— he places both of them by his feet, on the duracrete. Ben doesn’t need wine today: he has Rey, he has the race, he has their shared tentative excitement. _Is this a date?_ he asks himself, not for the first time. He wants to ask her; he thinks it is. It’s not as though he doesn’t already known every inch of her body, it’s not as though they don’t share a life together, but the thought that they’re doing something so normal as going on a date… it’s a headier buzz than he could have ever expected.

 

Ben glances at the timer above the viewing stands that rise up on the opposite of the track; they have about five minutes before the race begins. The pod racers have begun to fire up the dual turbine engines on their crafts, and the plasma link between power couplings on each engine spark like fiery amethyst chains. All manner of species are competing: armored and helmeted humans, long-faced antennaed Toong, hand-walking Dug who waddle around running checks on their craft with their feet, long-necked and four-armed Xexto, and countless others. He tries to differentiate, tries to count the various worlds being represented but gives up after a few minutes— there’s simply too many racers.

 

Even through the windshield, the crowd buzzes like a hive of Corellian wine-bees; the smell of the forests and crackling plasma wafts through the air. For one terrible moment, Ben thinks he sees the apparition of his father’s face in the crowd. And he knows that’s impossible, the crowd is too far away to make out individual faces and it’s his oft-buried guilt playing tricks on him, but he tenses anyway.

 

Beside him, Rey leans forward, staring at the rows upon rows of seats below them, all the way down to the dirt track where the pod racers have begun to seat themselves in the cockpits of their crafts. She glances at him, and smiles.

 

It’s not a tranquil scene. And yet, he feels something go quiet and still in his chest. Calm. There is chaos and excitement all around him, inside him even, and yet he is flooded with a sense of calm. Rey is here with him. Everything is fine.

 

The warning buzz sounds out over the crowds, loud and resonant.

 

“Here we go!” cries Rey, bouncing in her seat. Her eyes are fixed on the starting line, one hand curled up in a fist.

 

Ben huffs and reaches for that fist; he traces one finger over the smooth soft skin on the back of her hand. In response, she unfurls her fingers like a blossoming flower then clutches onto his.

 

They’re in public, holding hands. He scans the surrounding seats. No one has taken any notice of them… yet. But by all of Alderaan’s ghosts, this is definitely a date.

 

 _Here we go, indeed_.

 

. . .

 

The shot rings out, and for a moment not one soul in the crowd breathes or speaks. Then away the racers zoom, already jostling for the lead position as they disappear into the forests to Ben and Rey’s left.

 

He passes her the datapad. “The rest of the course,” he informs her, looking down at the screen over her shoulder, “passes through forest, around three methane lakes, and part of the hinterlands.”

 

The datapad shows a large topographical map of their circuit. With a few clicks, Rey switches to individual racer cams; a tusked Vulptereen grins as he pulls ahead of the crowd, cutting off a three-eyed Gran racer who immediately spits out, “Bayyaaa?” A curse, perhaps.

 

“Ten credits says he takes it all,” she says.

 

“The Vulptereen?” Ben scoffs. “Never. He’s aggressive—but look how he takes those turns. He won’t survive the canyon, not with how much he overcorrects.”

 

Rey’s expression turns appraising: pursed lips, furrowed brows. “You… really like this, don’t you?”

 

He shrugs.

 

But Rey knows, she reads him— even if she doesn’t pry into his thoughts, she can still sense him in the Force, can still intuit his emotions— so she squeezes his hand, and leans her body into his.

 

“Is it—painful?” she asks, in a low voice. “To be here?”

 

He swallows thickly. “It’s worth it,” he hastens to assure her— unwilling to lie.

 

“You… told me this was something I needed to see in person,” she reflects, speaking slowly but with such soft sympathy that Ben must look down at the datapad, where the racer cams still display the twenty-odd pilots, most of whom are now making their way around the first of the circuit’s three flammable, bubbling methane lakes.

 

“When did you last see a pod race, Ben?”

 

“A long time ago,” he mutters.

 

“With your—”

 

“Yes. and—Chewbacca. And Lando.”

 

She sighs. “Good old Chewie.”

 

“Yeah,” he chokes out. He needs this conversation to be over, so he blurts out: “It’s a short circuit—they’ll be back around in a few minutes.”

 

But Rey’s not quite ready to let it go. “You did this for me anyway, though,” she pauses and leans in closer, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you.”

 

His cheeks go warm, but before he can speak, a sharp feminine voice from the row in front of them hisses, “Are you… Kylo Ren?”

 

He looks up. Not to the voice, but to Rey. What he expects to find there, on her face, in her signature in the Force— apprehension at being recognized, uncertainty as to how best react— he doesn’t. He sees resolve, grim-lipped and steely-eyed. She turns to the ballgown-wearing Zabrak, who has stood and turned, glaring at them through narrowed orange eyes.

 

“Yes he is,” Rey replies for him, jutting her nose up in the air. “But that’s _Senator_ Ren, to _you_.”

 

_“Traitor!”_

 

It’s not quite a shout, but it’s close to it. Finally, Ben forces himself to look at her. The red and black lines on her face are crinkled by her sneer. Her red fingers cling to the back of her seat so tightly that her knuckles have gone pink and white, and the crown of bony horns on her bald head gleam in the afternoon sun.

 

“You’re a disgrace.”

 

And then, she spits on him. A huge wad of black phlegm flies from her mouth, landing on the dark Fleuréline weave of his tunic.

 

“How _dare_ you!” Rey bellows, bursting out of her seat.

 

Ben looks down at the stain, barely visible on the fabric. Shame. He feels shame, as if the spittle has burned through his clothes and his chest and his heart. The shame makes his cheeks flush and his throat thick— not because he’s been noticed and scorned publicly. He always knew that’d be part of his life. But for Rey to endure this as well? For one fleeting instant, he wishes he could undo all of it. He can’t even be sure how far back he would have to go, to not deserve this.

 

Could he go back to the first pod race, back when he was still just a child, and live his life in a different way? Could he go back to Luke’s temple? Could he go back to the moment he chose to surrender, and choose to go down with his wretched First Order instead?

 

He sighs; the bubble of excitement that has seemingly protected him and Rey all afternoon has been pierced, and the rarified air they were breathing is quickly escaping. Reality and regret rush in to replace it.

 

Absently, he notices that the racers have all passed the lakes, made their way through the rocky outcropping-filled hinterland, and are just beginning to turn onto the final stretch, the canyon.

 

Beside him, Rey is vibrating with fury. He sees as much as senses her reaching for her lightsaber; hastily, he grabs at her hand, yanking her back down into her seat. Looking around, he can tell that others have overheard or perhaps seen, but no one acknowledges; they all sit with their bodies angled away from him and Rey, their eyes trained either out at the stands or down at their datapads.

 

“Rey,” he mutters, shoving the datapad into her hands, “don’t worry about—look.” He clicks on the screen, shifting to cameras stationed in the canyon. “This is the—best part.”

 

For a moment, her confused gaze flits between him and the furious Zabrak, who still leans on the back of her seat, glowering at them both. He shakes his head at Rey, trying to will her to ignore the woman.

 

“You should be ashamed to show your face in public,” she jeers.

 

Another shake of his head, but it’s no good. Remaining seated, Rey turns to regard her, calmly. Coolly.

 

“You don’t know this man, and you’re not interested in him,” she says, without emotion.

 

The Zabrak blinks once, twice. Her face has gone blank and placid. “I don’t know this man and I’m not interested in him,” she echoes tonelessly.

 

“You want to sit down in your seat now.” Rey nods at her.

 

“I want to sit down in my seat now.”

 

Rey rolls her eyes at the woman. “Well? Go, then! _We’re_ not stopping you.”

 

The trance snaps; the Zabrak’s eyes dart around in confusion. “Er… right. I’m—I’ll sit, then,” she mutters, before promptly turning and plunking down in her chair.

 

She is _remarkable_ , Ben thinks— just as he told her on that fateful night. She is perfect. A situation that could’ve ended with violence, with the tenuous boat of peace being irrevocably rocked— who knows what he might have done, if the woman had continued her harassment— has been averted. Diffused. And she barely lifted a finger.

 

Rey is smiling at him sadly, and he hardly even knows where to begin. He tries anyway, sighing: “Rey—”

 

“Look,” she cuts him off, pointing towards the canyon, “here they come!”

 

And so they do. A cacophonous swarm of pod-racers, one of which slams into the canyon wall and tumbles to its floor without even completing its first lap. The others zoom by the stands, just a hair's breadth between the glory of leading the pack and the all-but-assured death that comes with a bad crash.

 

Ben hardly even sees them.

 

. . .

 

They’re silent for some time. Rey cheers, one first raised towards the sky, and he claps half-heartedly, each time the pod-racers finish their lap and whiz past the stands; otherwise, they sit without speaking, watching the race progress on the datapad.

 

“You were right,” she says to him, subdued, at some point between lap eight and nine.

 

He startles; he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Was I?”

 

“Some things you _do_ have to see for yourself.” Her smile is tentative, a little wobbly. He loves her so much it pains him, a physical ache: a stone hurtling around inside his heart, beating against the walls of its chambers.

 

“Something else, too,” he manages to get out.

 

Again she takes his hand, entwining their fingers and squeezing gently. “What’s that?”

 

For a beat, he stares at their hands. Then he brings his eyes up to meet hers, entranced— not by the Force, but just by Rey. Remarkable, peaceful, angry, merciful Rey.

 

“You’re a very good Jedi.”

 

“Is it—” she breaks off, blushing, and stands, “—warm in here? It feels—warm.”

 

“Rey, where are you—”

 

“Come.” She tugs on his hand until he rises too, then begins to lead him across the row and up the set of stairs that leads to the entrance corridor.

 

“You’ll miss the end,” he warns her, glancing back at the stands.

 

“I know where they’re going, Ben,” she throws over her shoulder, heading straight for the concession stand area. “I care more about where _we’re_ headed.”

 

“Which is?”

 

Rey smiles. “You’ll see.”

 

. . .

 

Where they are headed is the public ‘fresher. The ‘freshers are meant for individual use; it isn’t much more than the toilet, a counter, a sink, and a mirror. And while Rey is tall and slender, Ben is pure bulk. It’s a tight fit, yet they make it work— as per usual.

 

It _does_ help that he’s on her, his hips shoving into hers the moment the hydraulic door closes and locks behind them. He’s got her backed against the counter, his lips on hers, fingers threaded in the silky loose strands of her hair. And she offers no resistance, in fact, she pulls him closer. Her hands wander from his face down to his sides, then around, grabbing at his behind and squeezing.

 

His good Jedi. His remarkable Jedi. His naughty Jedi.

 

Ben loves kissing Rey; he could do it for hours, he could do it indefinitely. Happily would he pass the rest of his life here in this less-than-fresh ‘fresher, merely teasing his lips against her, sliding his tongue across hers just see if she’ll reciprocate. She does, she always does. She meets him— toe to toe, lip to lip, tongue to tongue. Equals.

 

But he can’t stop thinking about his father, and the confrontation, the Zabrak’s angry sneer, the way the people around them pretended not to notice.

 

He breaks away, pulling in a few much-needed gulps of air. Then, panting, he asks, “Doesn’t it bother you? The—way they look at me? Their thoughts?”

 

“No,” Rey declares without hesitation, shaking her head. “You came _back_. Not everyone can understand what that means, but—”

 

“Rey.”

 

He cups her lovely face in his hands, running his thumbs over the freckles that dust her cheekbones. His dear Jedi. His forgiving Jedi.

 

“I do,” she gasps, “I understand, Ben.”

 

Then she pushes him until he takes a step back. She whirls on him, forcing _him_ back against the counter. Sinking to her knees, she unbuckles his belt, works his trousers open, pulling his cock— half-hard already, although he’d been trying not to grind it on her too obviously— into her hand.

 

“You don’t—” he loses his train of thought for a moment, sucking in a sharp breath when she swipes her tongue across the now-flushed head, “—have to do that. This day wasn’t about—this. Just something for us to—”

 

“Share?”

 

He nods. And then his heart stops beating, because she takes the now achingly hard and dribbling head into her warm wet mouth, and sucks heartily, hollowing out her cheeks.

 

“Kri-i-i—” is all that comes out, guttural and strained and quavering. He bites his lip. She’s going to undo him; she’s going to suck out his brains through his cock right here in a public ‘fresher on some nowhere planet in the Mid Rim.

 

“I’m going to give you something,” she says, pulling away and meeting his eyes. Her own are dark, the hazel barely visible around the blown-out pupils. “Because I want to. Like you wanted to. And you’re going to be very, very loud for me, Senator.”

 

“They’ll—hear us. Out there.” His weak attempt at a protest, in defense of her dignity.

 

Rey tilts her head, brows pulling together. “Do you mind?”

 

“… No,” he admits. And he doesn’t. Kriff them all.

 

“Good,” she says, lowering her eyes back to his cock, which bobs up towards her nose, eager and twitching. “Me neither.”

 

. . .

 

“You know,” Rey, starts, later— after they’ve composed themselves, snuck out of the ‘fresher, Rey offering a sharp-toothed smile to anyone who looked askance at them, and after they’ve slipped away from the pod-racing stands, back through the woods, stopping when Rey insisted that they dip their bare feet in the waters of a small pond—

 

“You won’t be a Senator forever.”

 

She leans back on the palms of her hands, leveling a meaningful look his way. Ben jerks his foot towards her, sending drops of water flying. All he gets is a disapproving click of her tongue. She is not, it seems, going to be easily distracted from this conversation.

 

“Is that a threat?” he asks.

 

She huffs. “Eventually you’ll retire, won’t you?”

 

He huffs right back at her, unsure where this is headed. “I—suppose.”

 

“And I won’t be the only Jedi forever, either,” she surmises. “Things will change. They’ll get—easier. I believe that, Ben.”

 

He hums. Studying their bare feet side by side in the water is difficult; the ripples from their movements distort the shape of them, and the dappled light that filters in through the forest canopy makes the pond dark, its depth unknowable. Still, his look gargantuan next to her own dainty calloused feet; pale where hers are golden, long and boney where hers are compact.

 

But perhaps those differences are complementary. He steals a glance at her, she’s looking at their feet as well, and she seems unperturbed.

 

She continues, her gaze dreamy and distant, “I was thinking—maybe we should build our own repulsorcraft.”

 

He smiles then, because of course she’d want to do that. He expects no less from her.

 

“And race it?” he suggests.

 

Another roll of her eyes— is it wrong, if he lives for these moments? When she enjoys his dry humor, when they are alone and he can truly relax?

 

“Or just take it for joy rides,” she says. “It could be ours. Something fun, just for us.”

 

Ben stares at her, unsure if he’s ever loved her more. Not in their bed, not at the ball that night, not when she reached for him across the galaxy, begging him to live— no, it’s here, in this moment, when the reality of who he will always be to some people has presented itself to her and she has accepted it bravely, without question, that he loves her so desperately it takes his breath away.

 

His hand, upstretched and offered out to her. She takes it. Again and again she takes his hand, she guides him or allows him to guide her, and blindly but without retreat do they stumble towards a shared future. He can accept this; he can embrace this.

 

“Yes,” he assents, smoothing the back of her hand with his thumb. “Something just for us.”

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> many many thanks to [trixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineGreen/pseuds/TourmalineGreen) for looking this over for me and catching my weird grammar/continuity slips!


End file.
